It Always Rains In England Or Does It?
by PostScriptAfterWriting
Summary: It's that time of year again: the 4th of July is rolling around. England feels worse the closer it comes to America's birthday. America, oblivious to this, wants to invite England to his party. Both recieve some advice from their siblings: in America's case, Canada, and in England's, Ireland. (Ireland is an OC. I gave her the human name Erin Hibernia.)
1. Alone With the Rain

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia! Himayura-san owns it! Do I look like Himayura-san to you?

Brief summary: It's that time of year again: the 4th of July is rolling around. England feels worse the closer it comes to America's birthday. America, oblivious to this, wants to invite England to his party. Both recieve some advice from their siblings: in America's case, Canada, and in England's, Ireland. (Ireland is an OC. I gave her the human name Erin Hibernia.)

Warnings: Possible swearing and alcohol use in future chapters. NOT YAOI!

* * *

It Always Rains In England...

Or Does It? 

_Chapter 1_

** July 1****st****, 2012**

** 1:00 pm**

** London, England**

Rain.

Always rain. Pounding on the windows, pattering on the rooftops, swishing in the gutters.

Arthur Kirkland hates the rain. Being a personification, the weather in his country reflects his mood. He would love to make the rain go away, to be rid of it forever. Feeling cheerful is just too much of an effort, though. Especially now, so close to America's 236th 'birthday'.

Droplets splatter against the windowpane, attracting the Brit's attention. Vibrant green eyes are reflected in the glass. They show a great bitterness, which Arthur refuses to acknowledge. He bears his pain stoically, alone with the rain on this dreary day.

The eyes, like round viridian orbs, are cast away from the window. In a rare, undignified manner, Arthur pulls his knees up to his chest and hugs them tight. Vivid images flash through his mind, as if he is living a nightmare. Why, why, why? Arthur's head rests on his knees. He is trembling, from head to toe. Nightmares. Daytime nightmares of America.

* * *

_America's knuckles were white from gripping his musket too tightly. "From now on, I am no longer your colony nor your baby brother, England! I am my own independent country now." _

_England's hands clenched a little tighter around his own musket. His messy blond hair was wet with rain and sweat, plastered against his face in disarray. "No!" the island nation replied furiously. "I won't allow it!" _

_The rebellious colony could only raise his musket sideways in defence when England charged. Splinters flew as England's bayonet pierced the side of America's musket. A splash echoed as the musket flew from America's hands and landed in a puddle. Fearlessly, the blue-eyed colony stared down the length of the musket. England glared at his colony, green eyes smouldering with rage. His breathing was ragged and heavy. _

_The two stared at each other for a long time, rain pouring in heavy sheets around them. Gradually, the angry expression faded from the Brit's face. It was replaced by one of immense sorrow and remorse, and the musket was lowered. _

_"I...I could shoot you, America. I should shoot you! But I..." England faltered. _

_America didn't blink. "My people and I want freedom, England. Give it to us, and we won't have to fight." _

_The island nation sank to his knees and hung his head, regardless of the mud and blood that stained the battlefield. "Is this truly what you want, America?" _

_"Yes," he replied certainly. _

_There was a long silence, in which England saw something that brought tears to his glittering green eyes. He stared at the reflection that was cast in the puddle that America was standing in. The reflection wasn't of the tall nation declaring his independence, it was...a younger America. The one who always wore that little white nightgown, the one who raced around with no shoes on. The one that crawled into England's bed in the middle of the night because he'd been frightened by a nightmare. The one that had chosen England over France, the one that had whispered, "Come back soon, Engwand."_

_The silence dragged on until finally England asked, "Do you hate me, America?" _

_America did not know how to respond. He couldn't exactly say he was fond of England at the moment: they had been locked in a violent war for eight years now. _

_So the newly independent nation said nothing, suspending the question for centuries to come. As it turned out, the unsaid words were the ones that hurt the most. _

_England stood up stiffly and turned. "I expected as much from you, git," he spat over his shoulder. _

_The very next day, the British sailed away. England stood at the stern of his ship, his cold emerald eyes watching America's every move. America had gained his freedom, but at what price? _

* * *

Thud!

Arthur realizes that he is lying on the floor. He is wearing his green army uniform, not the redcoat from the war. Arthur does a few more reality checks to remind himself that the Revolutionary War—those awful eight years—is over. The Revolution is over, Alfred is gone, and Arthur is alone with the rain.

The Brit sits up and crosses his arms loosely over his knees. What would he give for just one day of sunshine? Tentatively, he recalls the settings on the final day of the war. It was raining then, too. Rain, rain, rain, and more bloody rain. It was raining today, as it had yesterday, and the day before that. It would surely rain tomorrow, and the rain's force would only increase the closer the days came to July 4th. And after the 4th...the rain would settle to a light drizzle, but never entirely go away. Just thinking about it makes Arthur feel sick. Desperately, he forces a smile, but the rain does not cease its relentless torrent because the smile does not reach his heart.

* * *

Bwaaaaahhhh! Iggy has too much emotional baggage. I'm really glad I didn't know about Hetalia until after we covered the Revolutionary War in school, because I would have been bawling my eyes out.

Anyhow, hope you liked it. Kind of short, so I apologize. Originally, this chapter included the events of America's life on July 1st, but I cut it out because I wanted to use it as the next chapter. Reviews and constructive criticism are welcome! Flames will be used to roast the Allies' marshmallows while England sings his Evil Demon Summoning Song, aka the Infamous Marshmallow Song!

England: Mera mera to, yaki tsukuse...

Arrivederci!


	2. Happy Birthday, Canada!

Disclaimer: Refer to the first chapter. I am obviously not Himaruya-san.

So, hope you all enjoy! Thanks for the follows and the review!

* * *

Chapter 2

**July 1****st****, 2012**

**8:00 am**

**Toronto, Canada**

Alfred F. Jones, better known as the United States of America, sits on the couch with his fingers laced together and resting against his lip. _England...I wonder what you're doing right now. And I wonder...why is it always raining when I come to see you on political business? Why does it always, always rain in your country? _

Matthew Williams, Alfred's half-brother, calls from the kitchen. "Al, breakfast is ready!"

The tall American gets up from the comfy leather couch and dashes to lean in the kitchen doorway. Despite his unusually-unenergetic-mood, he can't resist his half-brother's amazing Canadian cooking. Aromatic smells waft from the two plates that have been set out on the counter. Matthew whips off his chef's apron with a flourish. He is as tall as his half-brother, with the same copper-blond hair. There are very few physical difference between them, such as the unique gravity-defying curl that springs from Matthew's hair vs. Alfred's cowlick, or Alfred's square glasses as opposed to Matthew's rounded ones. Their personalities differ drastically, but they still get along when Alfred actually remembers his brother to the north.

"You're being unusually quiet, Al," the Canadian tells him as they sit down at the table.

"Hmm...oh, what? Sorry, I was just thinking," Alfred murmurs.

Matthew laughs cheerfully, but softly. "Now that's a rare occurrence."

Ignoring the quip, Alfred says, "It feels like I'm forgetting something. What day is today?"

"July the 1st," Matthew responds dutifully.

Alfred snaps his fingers. "That's it! BRB, bro!"

Matthew watches, amusement glittering in his indigo eyes, as his half-brother pounds up the stairs to the guest bedroom. Seconds later, the American rushes back down with a gift bag hid clumsily behind his back. Matthew can easily distinguish the Canadian flag—his flag—on it. Alfred presents a maple-leaf-shaped bottle of, what else, maple syrup.

"Happy birthday!"

"America!" Matthew exclaims as he takes the bottle. "You shouldn't have."

Alfred grins, a grin as bright as the sun and a mile wide. In spite of his careless nature and general inability to sense the mood, he is a very considerate brother. "Here, there's this too." He pulls out a meticulously folded hoodie, again displaying the Canadian flag.

"Oh, wow!" The Canadian places his maple syrup on the table and takes the hoodie, wiggling into it. It is a perfect fit. "I love it, America! You really didn't have to go through this much trouble for me, though."

"Hey, I'm just doing my job as a hero!" proclaims Alfred, through a mouthful of Canadian bacon.

Matthew tries not to sweatdrop. He really can't see anything heroic about giving a birthday present, but he doesn't have the heart to crush the nation's good mood. "Ahaha...but you really didn't have to get me anything, Al. It's enough that you remembered for once."

Guilt washes over Alfred. "Sorry I forget most of the time. Usually I'm always caught up in preparations for my own birthday. But actually, I should have got you a lot more. I've still got about two hundred years of not-happy-birthdaying you to compensate for!"

"It's okay, America. I understand. At least you remember more than any other country—except for France, that is." But even France frequently forgot the half-invisible nation's birthday.

"By the way, you're the best cook ever, Mattie. Well, except for France."

The Canadian blushes modestly. "I did learn from him, after all."

"~O Canada!

Our home and native land!

True patriot love in all thy sons command~"

"Huh?" Matthew murmurs. "Oh, speak of the devil. It's France."

Both brothers had leaned in close to look at the caller ID when Matthew's phone, which was lying on the table, rang with his national anthem. Alfred, after seeing that the caller is Francis Bonnefoy, sits back and watches his half-brother answer.

"France? Oh, bonjour. ...Merci. Je vais bien..."

Alfred begins to munch on the heaping stack of pancakes that Matthew made especially for him. Thinking about France caused the nation to remember the times when Europeans had first come to his land. There was France, and there was England... His brother Canada had been raised by France for a time, until he became a British colony with America. However, Canada had taken more attributes from France than he had from England, due to the fact that the former nation tended to remember and acknowledge him more often. Canada was soft-spoken and shy, but he had certainly not gained those traits from France or England...

Alfred remembers the happy days, when he had lived with England and Matthew had lived with France. Occasionally the two half-brothers got to see each other, but more often they were facing each other on the battlefield at much too young an age. France and England had dragged the young colonies into their long-time rivalry, albeit intentionally or not. And still America and Canada managed to maintain a healthy relationship, which was only strengthened when the Europeans receded from their land.

Alfred's thoughts now circulated back to England alone. How he had missed the island nation on those long, dark nights. How he would stand on the seashore and stare out at the horizon, patiently awaiting the arrival of those billowing white sails that usually promised England's return. America had often been left alone, because his 'big brother' was the head of an empire that ruled 1/3 of the world at its height.

* * *

_"Engwand?" said the young colony. "When will you be back?" _

_"I don't know, America," he replied with a gentleness quite unbecoming of the current age in which he ruled the seas as a pirate. _

_America wrapped himself around the Empire's black sea boots. "Don't go," he begged. _

_Gingerly, England pried the young nation from his shins and crouched down to look him in the eye. America's dancing blue eyes were wide and large, wavering with unshed tears. England tenderly wiped one away as it rolled down his colony's cheek. Then he swept America into an embrace. The plumy feathers draped from the pirate's elaborate hat fluttered, tickling the back of America's neck and causing him giggle. Instantly, the child seemed to forget about his sorrow, until England murmured, _

_"I can't stay, America. I must go back to my home, but I promise I'll bring back all kinds of treats for you when I return." _

_America's bottom lip trembled, but he did not cry again. "Come back soon, Engwand," he demanded. "Don't get hurt." _

_The island nation stood up to his full height of 5'9". The sun was setting behind him, out over the untamed lands. Red streaks from the sunset blended with his red Captain's tailcoat. The lighting behind him turned his hair to golden sunlight underneath his hat. A gentle breeze shifted this blond hair over his dark bushy eyebrows to frame his effervescent green eyes. The feathers in the left side of his tricorn hat rustled next to his jaw, which was set with determination. _

_"I promise I'll come back alive," England said softly as he looked down at his young colony. Alive, sure, but he could not promise what condition he would be in. As an Empire, he had many enemies in the world at the time, including Spain and his Armada, as well as England's long-time rival, France. _

_How many times had he battled for this little boy? The nation wondered, feeling a smile tug at his lips when he met America's eyes. How many times had he allowed himself to be shot, decapitated, or sliced to ribbons by his enemies for America's sake? How many times would he do it again? America had given him a new reason for living, a new motivation to become the greatest empire the world had ever seen. All for his dear little colony. _

_America looked up at the island nation with awe and admiration in his shining blue eyes. _I want to be just like Engwand when I grow up! _He thought. _I want to be a big, strong empire like Engwand!

_Yet as time progressed, the two 'brothers' drifted farther and farther apart. America became captivated with his own fantasies of ruling the world and declared independence from England, thus inspiring the collapse of the entire British Empire. America even coined a new term for himself after he became independent—"Global Superpower"._

* * *

"Alfred?" Matthew is off the phone now.

The nation looks up from his clean plate. "Yeah?"

"What's wrong? By now you'd usually be rambling on about your latest movie, or a new video game you got from Japan."

Alfred sighs heavily. "It's...nothing."

Matthew gives him a look, and the nation sighs again.

"It's England. I've been thinking about him."

Matthew arches an eyebrow, his face the picture of scepticism. "England?" Actually, he's not surprised. It would only make sense that Alfred thought of him, this close to the 4th of July.

"Uh-huh. Three days 'til my birthday. I'm wondering if the old man will come."

Matthew is tempted to correct his brother and remind him that England is only 23, but he holds back the reprimand. Instead, he asks quietly, "Does England really mean that much to you?"

"Well, yeah. He raised me."

"He raised me, too, but he can never remember my name," the Canadian mutters under his breath.

"What was that?"

"Er, ahem, nothing. Anyway, if he really did mean anything to you, why did you leave in the first place?"

"I wanted to be myself. England was good to me, but he got a little too restraining at times, as if I were a dog on a leash and he just kept tightening that leash until I snapped it altogether. And...I wanted him to be proud of the nation I became."

Matthew is silent for a few moments, taking this in. It is rare that he ever has heart-to-heart moments with his half-brother, so most of this is new information to him. "...He wasn't there last year, was he?" When Alfred shakes his head, Matthew goes on with, "You know that he gets really upset on that day, right?"

Alfred looks at him, completely clueless. "What?"

Matthew facepalms. "You really didn't know? He drinks himself into oblivion every 4th of July for the specific purpose of forgetting your birthday. It's no wonder he didn't come last year."

The American pauses, taking this in. "...Why would he want to forget?"

Matthew raises an eyebrow. "Possibly because remembering would be painful? He cared about you, America."

"Well, he must not care anymore, if he wants to forget about me!" exclaims Alfred, sounding a little hurt. "You've seen him at world meetings, Canada—he sits the furthest from me and avoids speaking to me if possible. When he does talk to me, he's usually arguing about something I said. I mean, come on! How can he not believe in aliens?"

The Canadian sweatdrops. "America, that's totally off topic. Anyhow, I agree, he does act frosty to you, but he just misunderstands you. And you misunderstand him! He thinks you hate him because you fought him for your independence. He doesn't understand why you weren't happy as a part of his empire, or why you wanted to become independent. You, on the other hand, don't understand how much he actually cared about you. It's been over two centuries and still you haven't tried to straighten things out with him. That's why he drinks every 4th of July, America. He doesn't understand, and you don't understand."

Alfred sits there quietly for a moment. _Is that it? Is that why it always rains in England? Because of me? _

Matthew looks at his half-brother uneasily. He realizes just how heated the argument had become, and he hopes he hasn't criticized Alfred too much. There was that one time when the Canadian had ranted for two hours and reduced his American brother to tears... Matthew is about to apologize when Alfred jumps out of his seat suddenly.

"You're right, Mattie. I need to take action, 'cause I'm the hero after all! But...uh...what should I do?"

Matthew sweatdrops, not for the first time and probably not for the last. "Send him an invitation now, and if you don't get a reply by tomorrow night, go see him yourself on July 3rd. It's about time you talked to him yourself about this matter, anyway. He'll listen to any valid reasons you give him to come to your party—if he's in good health or sober."

Alfred nods enthusiastically, but then he eyes his half-brother suspiciously. "How do you know so much about him, anyhow?"

"1: I am, like you, one of him former colonies. Unlike you, I actually attempted to observe his behaviour when I was his charge.

2: I meet him for tea sometimes—we have similar tastes in food and reading. He's not so bad when he remembers who I am.

3: I'm part of the Commonwealth. He's a frequent topic of interest at our meetings.

4: We share the same monarch.

5: France always—"

Alfred interrupts with a laugh. "Thanks for the advice, bro." He holds out a fist, and Matthew bumps it.

Later, Alfred goes back to his own country to begin writing England's invitation, feeling much better. Matthew sits alone at his table for a moment, then his pet polar bear cub toddles in to the room. It climbs up onto Alfred's vacant chair, dips a paw in the maple syrup, sucks the paw, and turns to Matthew.

"Who are you?" it asks.

"I'm Canada," Matthew tells it wearily. This is a conversation that's been had before.

"Ca...na...dia? What's that?"

"Ca-na-da. It's a country, Kimanjiroo."

"Hmm," says the bear, whose real name is Kumajirou. "Never heard of it."

Exasperated, Matthew walks away to begin cleaning up the kitchen. Kumajirou watches him curiously and dips his paw into the maple syrup once more.

"Who are you again?" calls Kumajirou.

Matthew throws his hands up in despair, but does not reply.

Kumajirou sucks thoughtfully on his paw. "Did I make him angry? Er...who is he?"

* * *

Ta-da!

Chapters may be progressing a bit more slowly from this point on, depending on how much homework I get. Anyhow, hope you liked it! Reviews are always welcome! And again, flames will be used to roast the Allies' marshmallows as England sings his song.

Also, I would like to say that I got the Canadian-flag-hoodie idea from a Hetalia Allies video. It was the song Panda Hero, and they were wearing awesome hoodies with their nation's flags on them. Freaking amazing. I want a UK hoodie so badly. It would be almost as awesome as Prussia.

By the way, I just wanted to mention that I did attempt to write this story using British English, but I probably failed miserably because I'm an American. T_T Iggy, teach me your waaaayyyssss! lol

England: I'm cross with you, Italia.

Me: Whaaaa?

England: I did not make an appearance in this chapter.

Me: Don't worry. You get to hog the spotlight next chapter, and you might be joined by your half-sister Ireland. ...You okay? You look a little pale.

England: *faints*


	3. America is the Sunshine

A/N: I apologize for taking so long. Recently I've been caught up in some annoying school exams and had no time to write. But I'm back now!

Disclaimer: Hetalia still belongs to Himayura-san, not me.

Warnings: Beware the drunk Iggy. He swears. And, obviously, he drinks.

* * *

**July 2nd, 2012**

**11:00 am**

**London, England**

On the morning of July 2nd, Arthur lies in bed, feeling worse than the previous day. He knows that his misery will only increase until that dreaded day comes to pass. It won't be long before his own mental capacities are unable to restrain him from the alcohol he knows that awaits him if he dares to venture into the kitchen. Already he hears the accusing mantra. _America's gone, it's all your fault! America's gone, it's all your fault! America's gone, it's all your fault! _

Flying Mint Bunny and the fairies hover off to the side anxiously. Their friend England is taking longer than usual to get out of bed. He makes one more attempt to rise, but curls back up by his pillow in a pitiful heap. Flying Mint Bunny floats closer and murmurs something, but Arthur doesn't hear. The only thing he sees is the green Pikachu-like creature's mouth move, and his sleepy brain automatically connects the movement to the ceaseless chant.

"America's gone, it's all your fault!" Flying Mint Bunny seems to say.

"Shut up!" Arthur yells, chucking his spare pillow at the friendly creature.

Flying Mint Bunny and the fairies back off, leaving Arthur huddled alone on his bed. He wants to stay like this all day, stay in bed and sleep until the 4th passes and he can finally return to his normal habits. He just wants to sleep it all away.

But he can't. Even now, no matter how sick he feels, he cannot lie in bed all day in case his Queen were to come visit him with a task. If she had decided to on this particular morning, she would have found a grumpy Englishman in rumpled pyjamas, with his golden hair in disarray. It's not like he could fall asleep, anyway, what with the schizophrenic chanting.

Arthur Kirkland slowly forces himself to sit up and swing his legs out of bed. He stares blearily out the window at the eternal rain and stands, almost recoiling at the cold hardwood floor.

Shower, get dressed, brush teeth...even the most routine tasks are difficult on this day. Arthur plops down at a table, feeling exhausted already. Unfortunately, this seat gives him a clear view of the pouring rain outside. With a groan, Arthur turns his head in the other way, hoping for a change of scenery. Something catches his eye. It is perched atop his highest cabinet, but he can still reach it with the aid of a stepladder. It's a dusty bottle of rum, left over from some celebration of France's that Arthur recently attended (not on his own will, of course).

Arthur recalls something that the country of love, Francis Bonnefoy, had told him last year on this exact day. "_You love your Amerique, non? Love is a powerful emotion, Arthur. It would make the rain go away." _

"_What would you know, bloody frog? Bugger off and leave me alone." _

"_All you have to do," chimed Francis, "is let yourself believe it. You have shut yourself off, locked away your heart. That is the reason it always rains, the reason you always get a fresh stab of pain at this time of year." _

"_Shut up, wanker. Just go away!" _

_Francis shook his head sadly. "Angleterre, you will never learn. The only one fighting you is yourself. Your Amerique is waiting for you to come and—" _

"_I've told you before, you pervert, that I have never even thought about an intimate relationship with America! Bloody sick frog...you might be a paedophile, but I sure as hell am not!" _

"_I was suggesting no such thing, Angleterre," soothed Francis. "All I am trying to say is...give the boy a chance to straighten things out with you." _

"_...Now will you leave me alone?" _

"_Oui. But think about my words, mon ami." _

Arthur glared at his folded hands, which were trembling within his black gloves. Now a new voice had joined the mantra, adding a fresh verse to the endless chant. This latest line did not go well with the others, which made it all the more infuriating.

_America's gone, it's all your fault, give him a chance! America's gone, it's all your fault, give him a chance! America's gone..._

In an effort to distract himself from the maddening repetition, Arthur turns back to the rain. The rain is no more comforting than the mantra, so he glances once more at the rum. A new mantra enters his head, but this time he is sure that it is entirely self-composed, not an unwanted gift from some eerie subconscious alter ego.

_Rum or rain, which do you choose? Rum or rain, which do you choose? Rum or rain, which do you choose?_

_Well of course it's not the bloody rain, you twat. _

Almost ruefully, Arthur finds the stepladder and climbs to reach the bottle. He pulls it down and is about to uncork it when there is a knock on the door. Frowning, Arthur leaves the bottle on the counter and goes to answer. Outside stands a postal worker, just under the eave of the country's house. Wordlessly, the postal worker passes a stack of letters into Arthur's hands and walks back down the street as fast as he can without seeming rude. As a special mail agent that directly served the queen and her country's personification, he is at least somewhat familiar with Arthur's illness and unpredictability around this time of year. One letter in particular will no doubt worsen his mood, the mail carrier knows.

As it turns out, the mail carrier's prediction is accurate. Arthur immediately feels his stomach drop to his boots, and his legs feel shaky. His hands are suddenly pale and clammy, clamped on the edges of the wide letter from the USA that sits on top of the stack, blatantly emblazoned with stars and stripes and fireworks. The Englishman leans against his open door, feeling the wind shift towards him and bring on a new onslaught of rain. He watches impassively as the twinkling droplets trickle from the house's eave. Arthur abruptly steps back and slams the door, shaking from head to toe. He makes it to the kitchen counter without falling over, and he tosses the letters down with rage smouldering in the depths of his green eyes. He doesn't need to see anything more: the stars and stripes are enough. It's the inevitable invitation to America's birthday party, the one that he received last year. All typed in fancy print, identical to every other invitation the USA sent out. The one inviting him to 'come and visit the hero at his birthday, and enjoy fireworks and hamburgers'.

"Keep your bloody celebration of independence to yourself, dammit!" yells Arthur, slamming his hand against the countertop. A single tear escapes and rolls down his cheek, but the country does nothing to intercept it. "Why would you...? Just to torture me I bet, America. You do this EVERY. SINGLE. BLOODY. YEAR! You celebrate your freedom, you commemorate the day you openly hated me. Keep your damn freedom, America. I HATE YOU!"

Flying Mint Bunny and the fairies immediately fade into the shadows upon hearing the hurt country's screams of anger. They know what their friend is like when he's upset, and they wisely decide to stay out of sight.

By the end of his rant, Arthur is all-out sobbing. _America's gone, it's all your fault, give him a chance, he's the reason for the rain. _The mantra is stuck on infinite replay in Arthur's head, but now it skips and stops like a broken record. Two words are consistent, the two words that Arthur hates most. _America. Rain. _The words rise to an unbearable volume, and Arthur knows he won't survive if doesn't soon find something to take his mind off them.

Arthur wipes a forearm roughly across his eyes. He snatches the bottle of rum from the counter and goes to slump down on the couch, his back pointedly turned towards the window. The gentleman slides down against the armrest and sets the bottle on the floor for a moment. He loosens his dark green tie and tosses it to the side. If the Queen wants to come see him on formal business, she will be sorely disappointed. _The Queen can bloody well wait. I've got drinking to do. _

The country smiles the tiniest bit, but it's not a smile of joy. It's a smile of rebellion—a smile against the Queen, against America, against the bloody 4th of July. He pops the cork of the bottle and tips it back, still smiling that tiny mirthless smile.

* * *

Erin Hibernia, better known as the country Ireland, frowns as the skies of London grow darker. She hears a clap of thunder, and sees the storm worsen. This could only mean one thing; the weather was corresponding to Arthur Kirkland's mood.

_It's bucketin' out there! I'll kill that eejit if 'e's hammered again. Why does 'e always do this to 'imself this time o' year?_

Erin loves her half-brother, she really does. She just has odd ways of showing it, such as frequently beating him up. Ever since the Irish War of Independence, tensions have been a bit high between them, but that doesn't stop Erin from caring about Arthur. She knows well enough how his condition collapses this time of year, having gone to a pub with him last year and been subject to one of his endless drunken rants about the United States of America. What she doesn't know or understand is why he is in such pain regarding America, after over 200 years now. Erin has never had much experience with colonies of her own, so she can only guess how her half-brother feels. She's certain of one thing, though: Arthur needs to find a way to resolve this issue with Alfred, because he can't go on living like this forever. The pain is always there, buried like a thorn in his heart, and it affects his daily life whether he realizes it or not.

Erin recalls one time from previous years that she accompanied her half-brother to a pub. She smiles a little bit, white gloves smoothing down her green silk dress. Arthur had challenged her to a drinking competition, and she had played along for a little while. For his sake, she quit early and insisted that he had beaten her. However, when he awakened with the most dreadful of headaches the next morning, Arthur knew he had been beat. Erin wasn't ill in the slightest after the night of heavy drinking, leaving Arthur to conclude in his personal journal that '_It is literally impossible for one to out-drink Ireland, if the person in question wishes to live with kidneys or a liver.' _(Erin has seen this writing with her own eyes, because she once stole her half-brother's journal.)

Out of the taxicab window, Erin sees Arthur's house in the near distance. She flips her wavy ginger hair to the side and prepares to exit the cab. The personification of Ireland looks similar to her siblings in the United Kingdom: thin and pale with striking green eyes. Of her half-siblings, she most resembles Scotland, with red hair a slightly lighter shade than his, and a personality and potty mouth similar to him.

It is time to set her brother straight. Erin pays the driver and exits the cab, her bare feet tapping against the wet pavement as she rushes to her half brother's door. She can hear music blasting from within, and sees a silhouette through the curtain that looks suspiciously like a dancing Arthur Kirkland with a bottle in hand. That is never a good sign. With a sigh, Erin acknowledges that her half-brother will not answer the door, no matter what.

Ireland isn't the kind of girl to just walk away and say 'oh well'. No, she is the kind of girl who is going to stubbornly beat and kick at the door until it falls down, then is going to burst in, get her half-brother in a headlock, and demand what the hell is going on.

And that's just what she does.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Erin holds a bewildered Arthur in a headlock. "What the hell is goin' on in here?" she grits out, loosening her chokehold slightly to let Arthur speak.

"Lemmego!" he demands, flailing a half-empty bottle of ale helplessly. Erin snatches it from his hand and hurls it at the wall. She forces Arthur to stand, though she's practically holding him. As soon as she steps away, he collapses in a pitiful, dazed heap. Grumbling curses in her native language, Erin helps him to his feet again and guides him to lean against the counter.

Breathless with exertion and rage, the feisty female country walks a little ways off, closer to the doorway, and turns around to fix her half-brother with a death glare. For a moment, he says nothing. His first sentence is broken. "America...s'gone."

Erin's fierce green eyes do not move from her half-brother as he slouches against the counter. He is shaking again, but Erin offers no condolences or pity.

"Why...why th' 'ell would he..." Arthur chokes on a sob and falls silent, tears streaming down his cheeks once more.

"You're pathetic," growls Erin. Arthur blinks in shock, and his half-sister continues. "You can't keep doin' this to yerself, England. I don't know why the hell yer so upset over America, but I do know that you've gotta find a way to fix it. The problem is the bloke's birthday, am I right?"

Arthur manages to nod. "The f-fourth of bloody J-J-July," he stammers, doing his best to fight off the flood of tears threatening to overwhelm him.

"Why d'you hate it so much?"

"'s...the day th-that America decided t-to hate me..."

"Hate you? If 'e hates you, why would 'e even bother t'send you an invitation to his birthday?"

It takes Arthur a minute or two to form the right words, but eventually he puts together a correct sentence. "T-to rub it in. The b-bugger wants to torture me every damn year with his bloody ce-celebration!"

"Bollocks. He's not that kind o' bloke, Artie." With an unusually gentle tone, Erin adds, "Sit down and I'll fix you some tea. We can talk later."

She props the broken door up against the frame so as to offer at least a little protection from the storm outside. She watches her half-brother stumble over to the couch and smiles a little before disappearing into the kitchen to do as she promised.

Arthur sits huddled up on the couch, knees drawn to his chest and head resting on his knees. He stares through bleary eyes at the downpour outside. It isn't a quite a thunderstorm anymore, now that Arthur has been calmed somewhat. However, flashes of lightning still linger, evidence of the alcohol remaining in Arthur's veins. The mantra in his head has fully returned, no longer skipping. But this time, it carries a different tone, one that comforts him and reminds him of something. Another line has been added, and some words have been rearranged and combined with new words to create a soothing rhyme.

_America is gone, is it your fault or is it not? He brings the rain_, _will it wash away the pain? Give him a chance, dance the dance. Make things right, stop this eternal fight. _

It brings back memories, memories of colonial America: the dancing blue eyes, the sunshine-blond hair, the smile that made England feel like he could rule the world. Arthur remembers the long hours spent holding the child until he fell asleep, the bedtime stories he told, and the toy soldiers he carved for his tiny colony. Tears come to his foggy green eyes again, but this time they are bittersweet tears, not angry ones. America, America, America. It all circulated back to him, how he had left. Arthur knows that, deep down, he still loves the nation like a little brother, and he just won't admit it to himself.

For a while, the Brit dozes off and on, hoping to sleep off the effects of the alcohol. It works, for the most part, and he feels refreshed when he awakens.

The island nation realizes that by now he's at least sober enough to have a reasonable discussion with his half-sister. At first, he wasn't quite sure it was her, but now he's positive that Ireland is the one who kicked down his front door just to see him. Arthur sits up the best he can, hunched forwards with his feet now on the ground and elbows resting on his knees, hands steepled around his nose. He feels Erin come to sit by him, and a steaming teacup comes into his line of vision.

"You alright now?" she asks gruffly.

"A little better," Arthur weakly responds. He grasps the teacup in shaky hands and manages to take a sip without spilling the entire thing.

"Talk, then. What's botherin' you?"

"America, obviously. I...I want to know if he hates me."

"Remember," says Erin, prodding him gently, "that he's not the kind of guy who'd invite you to his birthday just t'spite you."

"'S impossible to tell," mutters the Brit as he sinks back into the couch. "The day he left me...I asked him if he hated me."

After a long silence, Erin says, "Well?"

"He never answered me." _If America hates you, is it your fault or is it not? Did you always treat him with good intent, or sometimes use him to your own ends? _Arthur frowns deeply. He's not sure of the meaning of this new rhyme, but he has an answer to the last question. He knows he was not always the best role model, or the best brother. The beginning of the downward spiral in their relationship...he had started it through upping the taxes. That had escalated to the Boston Tea Party...

Erin sits quietly, watching her half-brother silently confront himself. She takes a sip of her own cup of tea.

"Why did you come?" asks Arthur after a while.

"I was worried about you. The weather always gets worse over here this time o' year. Your grudge is no secret, especially not to me or your other siblings."

The Brit closes his eyes with a wry smile. "Strange, though, that it's you, Ireland, who came. Someone who is just barely related to me, someone who I recently fought a war with. Not Scotland or Wales, even though we're on good terms. Northern Ireland, I wouldn't expect: she's like a female version of Sealand."

"Touchy subject, England. Move on."

"What I'm trying to say, I guess, is...thank you."

Erin smiles. "Hey, we couldn't have you drowning your Queen's loyal subjects."

Arthur laughs faintly. It's not a laugh of pure joy, not one that would lift the curtains of rain from his land, but it's a welcome change from being downright miserable.

"So now what do you plan to do, Kirkland? Are you going to go to America's birthday?"

"I'm...not sure yet."

"...you didn't even read his invitation, did you?"

"I assume you did?"

"Along with the rest of your mail. You really should pay that speeding fine, England."

"Shut up."

"Anyways, you didn't even open the invitation!"

"I got one just like it last year. I know what it says, word for word."

Erin snatches the envelope from the counter and sits back down. Arthur is silent as he reads it. To his surprise, the letter is handwritten in America's scrawly writing. Arthur finds several grammatical errors, but for once he doesn't mind. It briefly melts the ice around his heart to know that America actually put time and effort into writing a simple invitation. (America has never had the best spelling or grammar, anyway.)

The feisty redhead nudges her brother with her elbow. "What d'you think?"

"I think...that I've been an idiot. I guess I need to give him a chance."

"So yer goin' to the party?"

"Possibly." _Probably_, Arthur thinks.

"And promise me you won't get wasted again. I don't like spending my day kicking down your front door."

Arthur glances sideways at the rain outside. It's started to ease up a little bit. "I promise, Ireland. You can leave now."

"You owe me," Erin calls, already halfway out the door.

Indignantly, Arthur storms after her, yelling, "I do not!"

"Do too!" she laughs as she hails a cab.

Arthur frowns and crosses his arms, shaking his head. He realizes that he's getting soaked, but he doesn't mind. His half-sister flashes him a grin before she swings into the cab. As it pulls down the slippery London street, Arthur sees the silhouette of Erin's hand as she waves back at him. The Brit starts to feel the chill of the rain, but he cannot deny that it's a tiny bit refreshing. He tilts his head back, staring into the grey heavens, waiting for the sunshine.

_America is the sunshine. _

Arthur is partially surprised and partially embarrassed with himself for this thought. Of course, he didn't mean it _that _way, but...

_I've been around France too long. He's corrupting me. _

With a wry smile, the Englishman turns and goes back inside, seeking his second hot shower of the day.

* * *

A/N: I've personally never been drunk before, so I hope I did okay with the drunk England parts. :/ Maybe I'll read up on the subject and come back to edit and make it better.

Also, I apologise if I overexaggerated Ireland/Erin's accent. I've never personally met an Irish person, however much I would like to.

R&R, people! Pwease? Must I call in Chibi!America to do his puppy eyes for me?


End file.
